


seconds to your elevator

by summerstorm



Category: Community
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-27
Updated: 2011-01-27
Packaged: 2017-10-15 03:22:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/156523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerstorm/pseuds/summerstorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you pressed her, if you really pressed her, Britta thinks she could trace this all the way back to the bar, and the beer, and maybe the shots before that. That was some terrible tequila there. And before that, her computer crashing beyond reboot on the brink of Britta finally finishing a project due Monday that she thought she was never going to get done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	seconds to your elevator

**Author's Note:**

> For the Porn Battle XI, prompt "bar." Title from Dragonette.

If you pressed her, if you _really_ pressed her, Britta thinks she could trace this all the way back to the bar, and the beer, and maybe the shots before that. That was some terrible tequila right there. And before that, her computer crashing beyond reboot on the brink of Britta finally finishing a project due Monday that she thought she was never going to get done.

Now she really might never get it in on time.

"That's why you always back up your work," Michelle Slater said after the—first? Before the first? Before the first shot. It has to have been before the first shot, because Britta distinctly remembers not intending to drink (that much) until Michelle slid up to her at the bar and was all, "If you were hoping to wax poetic about your sorrows, you came to the wrong bartender," which Britta was well aware of, thank you very much, and then, "I'll buy you a stronger drink."

"Is that a come-on?" Britta said, eyebrows raised as high as they'd go.

Michelle looked at her with a barely perceptible frown, mouth falling open a fraction. Her expression remained disturbingly unmoving for a few seconds, and then Michelle shrugged and basically gave Britta a once-over. It was subtle, just this quick series of eye flickers, but nowhere near subtle enough for Britta to miss.

That might have been where this all began. It set a certain mood, a certain _wrong_ kind of mood, and Britta was in a vulnerable place where things like having drinks with Professor Slater seemed like a good idea, and then she was in a happy place where it seemed totally normal to shift closer and lean in and touch Michelle's arm and... trace shapes on Michelle's wrist with her thumb, jesus christ. Sometimes Britta thinks she should hire someone to follow her around and keep her at a safe distance from drinkable alcohol at all times.

Britta's not sure how she ended up in Michelle's apartment, but at one point she found herself in the middle of Michelle's living room, one arm draped around Michelle's shoulders and her voice drawling things she lost track of once they came out. The only thing Britta distinctly remembers saying is—oh, god—"So where's your bed?"

"Down the hall," Michelle said, in this matter-of-fact tone with a weird edge of _you don't need to know this_.

"We should go there." Britta nodded and turned to Michelle, and then she—

—and then she kissed Michelle. Because getting drunk and passing out in Michelle Slater's apartment wasn't embarrassing enough.

Michelle said something unintelligible against Britta's mouth, and then she grabbed Britta's shoulders and pushed them back, shaking her a little.

"That's rude," Britta said.

"Britta," Michelle said, eyes locked on Britta's, "you're drunk. You need rest." As an afterthought, flat like a decision she knew she hadn't thought through, she added, "You can kiss me in the morning. If you remember I said you could."

"I'll remember," Britta said, humming under her breath, "I _always_ remember."

So now it's morning and Britta's face is buried in Michelle's pillows and there's a warm hand rubbing her back and Britta feels like she's going to _die_. In Michelle's bed. Because dying wasn't bad enough, she has to do it in front of someone who will totally definitely judge her for it.

And she definitely, totally remembers.

She groans, and gets a mouthful of cotton for her trouble.

This day is shaping up to be _awesome_ , she thinks morosely, and then she feels cold air hit the exposed area of her back her shirt rid up off of.

"Get out of bed," Michelle says. It's a commanding tone, but it feels like Michelle's trying to soften it, which—neither part of that makes sense to Britta. "I just called in a favor, don't make me regret it."

Britta rolls over and forces her eyes open, watching Michelle through a thin slit between her lids. Michelle's already dressed and she looks like she's coming down from some kind of exhausting debate.

"A favor from the CIA?" Britta ventures. Michelle rolls her eyes and, for a second there, Britta thinks she's going to snap—but then Michelle just cracks a small smile and cocks her hips, relaxing.

"A favor from a friend."

"You have friends?" Britta says, which, alright, fine, is really bitchy considering she just slobbered all over Michelle's sheets. Probably expensive sheets. They feel expensive somehow, like the time she tried to crash this awesome band's hotel suite party while extremely intoxicated and somehow passed out in a linen closet.

Michelle ignores her. "She's a computer tech, and you know what? I really enjoyed knowing if my laptop broke down I could just call her up in the middle of the night, no questions asked, and I just cashed in that favor, so you better use it well."

"How do you even know—" Britta trails off when she remembers telling Michelle about her computer woes—that part is not even fuzzy, because it happened before all the drinking—but it's already too late. The damage is done.

Michelle's saying, "Because you whined and whined about your old computer and then later you whined and whined about your old computer again. There was something about how of course it was too old to function, why would you expect a computer that old to cooperate, it would be like—" Michelle frowned, eyes narrowing in concentration, and said slowly, "Like expecting Pierce to be politically correct. Oh, and I also heard all about your project for that class you really don't want to have to get through all over again because you can't stand your professor." Then, her voice degenerates into a monotone as she mimics Britta, "Oh my god, it's so horrible, it's like his entire life revolves around his dick." She goes back to normal condescending Michelle as she adds, "Which is an apt description, if not one I'd necessarily rattle off to his fellow faculty members."

Britta stares at Michelle for a moment, sitting up. "Do you feel better now? Yeah?" Michelle shrugs. "Why does this person owe you a favor, anyway?"

Michelle snorts a sarcastic laugh. "If I told you, she'd stop owing me."

"Okay, now I really want to know."

"We all have our embarrassing moments," Michelle says. Britta can tell it's a rehashed line, just trite bullshit, but she doesn't miss the second Michelle realizes what she's said, what she's accidentally alluded to. She doesn't cringe, not the way Britta does, but it's a close thing; her mouth twists fractionally in disgust, too proud to make much of a face but still embarrassed enough that it shows.

Britta forces herself out of bed.

Cashing in the favor involves Michelle driving to Britta's house to get the computer, which is kind of a pain given the five flights of stairs and no elevator and how ridiculously heavy the computer is, not to mention the five minutes Michelle spends steeling herself to touch it, saying, "That is incredibly disgusting," until Britta cleans it up a little. By the time it's all packed up in Michelle's trunk, Britta's arms are this close to dead and Michelle makes a pained noise when she lifts her hands to the wheel.

"You owe me a massage," Michelle says, just a throwaway comment that very painfully reminds Britta, again, of that moment last night where Michelle told her she could kiss her if she wanted to. Michelle's looking straight at the road, so she misses the way Britta's eyes widen for a moment and her face scrunches up in embarrassment as she curls into the seat, hoping it'll swallow her.

With all the alcohol gone from her system, Britta is still kind of interested. Hooking up with Jeff is—fun, she guesses, but also unpredictable and embarrassing and probably something a mature adult would stop doing if she had better prospects. And really, anything is better than going three weeks without sex and getting drunk and accidentally falling into bed with Jeff Winger. They have a similar enough amount of blackmail material on each other by now that their chances of using it cancel each other out, so that doesn't matter, but Britta feels kind of gross afterwards. And sometimes during. Often during. Each orgasm she has is a little like throwing mud on her own principles.

Maybe dating Michelle would be even worse, though. Is there a code for dating your exes' exes that you had a really bad run-in with? Probably not. It doesn't seem that bad in theory.

It doesn't feel that wrong in context, either.

"I feel like you're mapping out my pores," Michelle says to her, not taking her eyes off the road.

"You should use better skincare," Britta retorts.

Michelle's friend turns out to be that short, dark-haired girl from the sketch comedy troupe at school; it turns out she works at an electronics store a couple of blocks from Michelle's building.

"Have you ever—" Britta begins, gesturing between the girl and Michelle. "Am I looking at corrupt teacher politics here?"

The girl frowns at her like she's crazy, which, whatever, sketch comedy troupe, and Michelle looks at Britta for a second before realizing what Britta's implying and saying, "She's never been in my class."

"Oh," the girl says. "Yeah, this has nothing to—"

"It wasn't a shining moment of morality," Michelle says, "but it wasn't illegal."

"O _kay_ ," Britta says, and drops the subject.

The girl plugs in Britta's computer and in less than eight minutes gives her an estimated reparation time of two hours, during which she's welcome to hang around and not touch anything that doesn't belong to her, or go somewhere else, like the coffeehouse across the street. Britta considers driving back to her place to take a shower, or at least walk the four blocks to the bar where she ran into Michelle last night and pick up her own car, but she's lazy, and she said no to breakfast when Michelle told her she might be able to save her assignment, so she's also pretty freaking hungry.

She suggests it to Michelle, because it seems rude to leave her there, and Michelle says, "I guess you can have two hours of my time."

"That's very generous of you," Britta says with a glare.

Coffee improves several things: Britta's mood, Michelle's general attitude towards Britta, their conversation, and the rumbling of Britta's stomach. All in all, Britta thinks it was a good decision.

"You never actually told me what this thing you need rescued was about," Michelle says, and Britta proceeds to talk about it. It was actually a good assignment; she put it off because she was kind of intimidated by it, hatred of her professor aside, and it's nice to talk about it to someone who seems to care about Physics a little more than Shirley ever pretends to.

Britta insists on paying for Michelle's breakfast despite her bank account practically screaming _don't do this to me_ in her head the whole time; she doesn't mean anything by it, just that Michelle put up with her last night and called in a favor for her, and Britta's not a complete selfish jerk. She thinks that comes across, though Michelle looks at her a little weird for a moment there and Britta feels compelled to dodge her gaze.

Her class assignment is rescued—the girl from the comedy troupe manages to back up her entire hard drive—but her computer doesn't make it.

"I'm starting to feel really bad," Britta says a while later, when her assignment starts printing. She's sitting at Professor Michelle Slater's desk, in Michelle's office in Michelle's apartment, using Michelle's computer. She doesn't know what makes her feel worse, watching the pages come out or looking at Michelle.

She turns around in her chair and chooses the latter. Michelle's leaning back against one of her bookshelves; she left Britta alone for a while, and just came by to—probably to make sure Britta wasn't accidentally breaking any electronic equipment.

"You can make it up to me," Michelle says after a beat.

She has a slight suspicion about where this is going, but Britta's track record with Michelle isn't great, so she waits for Michelle to go on instead of accidentally embarrassing herself again. "How?"

Michelle shrugs lightly, the corners of her mouth curling upwards. Britta finds herself mirroring that smile a little, abashed, even before Michelle says, "I don't know. Dinner? I know this is probably not as appealing to you as getting trashed, but I was thinking we could only drink in moderation this time. Make sure you don't need me to jog your memory about anything in the morning."

Britta holds back a snort. "And maybe _I_ can cash in on that kiss you told me I could give you."

Michelle looks taken aback for a moment, long enough to make Britta almost regret coming out with that, but then Michelle nods, considering, and says, "I think I can manage that."


End file.
